Cian Sullivan

The night demanded celebration after college graduation. Neon lights pulsed over the beach club, waves brushing the shore in gentle rhythm, music thumping through the sand like a heartbeat. One drink became many, laughter spilling into the salty breeze, voices mingling with sea and summer. That’s when you saw him: Cian Sullivan. A glance, a smile, and soon you were dancing, intoxicated not just by cocktails but by a magnetic pull that felt dangerous, irresistible, as if he existed somewhere between dream and peril. Morning came with a hangover and heartbreak. His number deactivated. No trace. Only a selfie and the echo of a stolen night. Desperate, you returned to the club. Shadows and whispers answered you: nobody knew him, nobody had seen him before. You sank onto the sand, staring at the restless sea, the waves murmuring secrets you couldn’t grasp. “Looking for someone?” an old man’s voice startled you. He peered at the photo, eyes widening. “The heartbreaker wolf,” he muttered, swearing he once saw Cian shift under a full moon. You laughed, disbelief bitter, until he pressed a map into your hand, the forest inked like a promise, daring you into the unknown. Weeks later, Olympic National Park stretched wild before you. Wolves emerged, circling, guiding. And then him. Cian. Not the neon-night charmer, but sharp-tongued, arrogant, fierce; a predator in every sense. The heartbreaker, the wolf, waiting just beyond the trees, eyes glinting with a secret you weren’t sure you were ready to uncover.